


Where History Comes From

by soupdujour



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Baking, Bedsharing, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Get Together, M/M, Misunderstanding, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn, europe trip, more European things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-14 06:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11777268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupdujour/pseuds/soupdujour
Summary: An AU where hockey players are anything but; misunderstandings, mutual pining, and bed-sharing are somehow more interesting when they're European, right?Written for Faith's birthday - hopefully these fictional (but not quite) grown men can convey how thankful I am for your friendship.





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jolt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolt/gifts).



**MAY 2017**

**MARKHAM, ONTARIO**

 

Mitch has loved cooking his entire life. There were things that came and went throughout his twenty years on the planet – places, people, hobbies – but one thing that never really faded into the background, as so many things tend to, was the familiar sensation of putting together a meal and watching as his family and friends reveled around his creations. He was by no means a Michelin-star cook, but he did take a certain amount of pride in his ability to cook, and he was more than aware when someone complimented or criticized a dish of his. 

But he had always just been a home cook, and assumed his life would take him down some other path that would appear eventually. Something more adult, realistic, responsible, pragmatic – the chorus of words appeared in his head every night before falling asleep.

So now, sitting in front of a pile of university applications easily a foot high, he wondered when that responsible course of action would magically appear. He had made it through all of high school, and his two gap years, without any inkling that this responsible, adult lifestyle would ever appear to him.

Mitch placed his hands upon his head and let out a deep sigh of frustration.

“Still fussing with those applications, Mitch?” his father called from his usual spot in the living room.

“Applications shmapplications. If I have to write out our full mailing address one more time I swear I’m going to die.”

Mitch never shied away from a little melodrama.

“Oh c’mon Mitch,” his mom chimed in. “It’s like we’ve always said – if you don’t want to do it, don’t do it.”

Mitch knew that he was a lot luckier than most people. His parents had never forced him to go to university – in fact, filling out these applications was entirely his idea. He knew the vast majority of his friends had felt some kind of pressure from their parents to pursue higher education, but his parents – good ol’ Bonnie and Paul – never once even implied that they thought university was the most important thing in their son’s life. As always, they just wanted what was best for him, and it was perfectly clear to them – if not to Mitch himself – that that path clearly did not lie in the stuffy halls of a university.

Still, if Mitch didn’t feel pressure from his parents, he definitely placed it on himself. Watching all of your friends go to university – some of the people he went to high school with were already on the verge of graduating – while you stayed at home and worked part-time at a bakery, well, that was bound to take its toll on your self-esteem, whether you wanted to go to university or not.

And so Mitch had been stuck on the ping-pong table of life ever since high school, constantly waffling between the safe choice of higher education, and the terrifying uncertainty of following your dreams.

“Yeah, mom, easy for you to say, but I’ve got the rest of my life ahead of me. This is, like, a binding contract, I’m gonna sign my life away to –,” Mitch glanced at the nearest application, “Simon Fraser University without even wanting to go there! What even is Burnaby, British Columbia? I swear that’s not even a real place. That sounds like a rabbit’s name.” 

Mitch’s parents only stared at him, knowing that when he rambled like this it was best to let him work it out on his own. The silence in the room finally caught up with Mitch, and he finished talking right before he was about to delve into the backstory of Burnaby, the Velveteen Rabbit’s rebellious cousin. He stacked the applications in a neat pile and laid his pen on top of them, ready to call it a night, when his mother emerged from the living room holding a thin stack of papers.

“More applications, mom? I guess it can’t hurt. What school is it this time? Community College for the Sad and Directionless? University of the Perpetually Unguided? The Higher Institute of Not Knowing What You’re Doing with Your Life?” 

“Mitch, for once, just be quiet and listen,” his mom replied, giving him a wry smile. Mitch smiled sheepishly back in response, but didn’t say anything more. 

“Now, don’t get angry with me, but I phoned Bernard –“

“You phoned my _boss_?! How did you even get the bakery’s phone number?! What – wh – why would you –“

“I told you to listen, Mitch,” his mother replied, continuing in her calm, steady way. “I asked Bernard where he studied baking, and he told me all about this culinary school that he attended, and said that you might be interested in at least taking a look at it. He said you definitely have an aptitude for it.” 

“Bernard… said that?” Mitch asked, confusion now replacing his former indignation. 

Mitch had worked at Meringue, the universally-popular-if-somewhat-snooty French bakery downtown ever since he graduated high school. It had initially just been an opportunity to make some extra pocket money as he worked out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life, and the fact that he would be working in his natural environment was just an added bonus. 

What was supposed to last at most six months had turned into an almost two-year endeavour, and Mitch had quickly worked his way up from garbage boy to working directly under the Bread Master. (Yes, as he often had to explain to his friends, Bread Master was a real position in a French bakery, and he worked directly with this terrifying, talented woman every day.)

Over time, Mitch became close with the Bread Master, Henriette – well, as close as one gets to a forty-seven-year-old master baker whose angled, black bob cut was only slightly less terrifying than the noise of her five-and-a-half inch heels cutting across the bakery’s marble floor. Bernard, however – the bakery’s affable-but-stern owner – remained elusive to Mitch, if only because he rarely ever set foot in the bakery itself, often too busy managing his collection of restaurants and gourmet grocery stores. Naturally, the run of Meringue fell to Henriette, who ruled over the bakery with a perfectly manicured iron fist.

So, for Bernard to have made a comment like that to Mitch’s mother of all people, meant that he had to have heard it from someone else – and Mitch spent the vast majority of his time working with Henriette. It wasn’t that the two of them didn’t get along – they got along quite well, according to Mitch – but Henriette just wasn’t the sort of person to dole out compliments lightly. Or at all. Ever. Mitch tried to visualize Henriette telling Bernard that he had an aptitude in the kitchen and became dizzy at the very idea. 

“Yes, sweetheart,” his mom continued, snapping Mitch out of his daydreaming. “I’ll just leave you the brochure here, and let you think about it.” 

She placed the brochure atop the ever-growing pile of university applications, and Mitch wondered again how she even managed to get a hold of it. He eyed the neatly designed brochure suspiciously, worried that Henriette was somehow watching. The sight of a perfectly cooked cut of steak, however, laid his mind at ease, and he spent the rest of the evening poring over the information booklet no less than six times.

Finally, as his parents were gearing up to go to bed, Mitch looked up from the kitchen table, and voiced the fear he had since his mother laid the brochure before him.

“The school… it’s in Paris,” Mitch offered timidly.

“Well yes, that’s where Bernard grew up,” his mother responded almost offhandedly.

Mitch made a mental note to ask his mother what exactly she and Bernard spoke about when she called him, but that conversation would have to wait for a different day.

“But this is, like, Paris. Which is, like – far?” Mitch mentally kicked himself for how absurdly he was wording this point.

“Mitch. Listen,” his father added from his seat in the living room. “If I hadn’t left Barrie for Markham, I never would have met your mother. And Markham might not be Paris, but how would you ever know that if you don’t go?”

Something about his father’s insane logic made Mitch think twice, and his dreams that night featured an Eiffel Tower made entirely of bread erected in the middle of downtown Markham.

 

_/ \\_

 

**MAY 2017**

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

 

Tyler watched the train pull out of King’s Cross, taking his fellow doctoral candidates – the only friends he had made so far in London – to different parts of the continent, none of them being from England to begin with. Tyler himself wasn’t European, but desperately needed the summer to work on his dissertation, which was moving ahead at a snail’s pace, and had decided to forego summer traveling and visiting family in order to get a head start on all the work he had to get done.

It had all seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do, until Tyler found himself at an incredibly busy train station, filled with tearful farewells and happy reunions, alone, and with nothing but an ever-growing mountain of work waiting for him in his apartment.

With nothing pleasant waiting for him at home, he decided the best course of action was to pop by the British Library on his way home. Never too early to start working, Tyler admitted to himself with a sigh, and set off on the short walk from King’s Cross to the library.

It was about eight months ago, only two months into the first year of Tyler’s doctoral program, that the librarians at the British Library noticed him coming to work at the library so often (sometimes multiple times in the same day). The librarians, mostly students themselves or retired volunteers, took pity on Tyler, and informed him that one of their private study desks, usually reserved years in advance, had just conveniently opened up. Naturally, Tyler jumped at the opportunity, even if it meant shyly admitting to the librarians that the British Library had, essentially, become his second home.

Tyler opened the front doors of the library, wading through summer tourists as he did so, and began navigating the familiar, labyrinthine hallways of the ancient library. If the reality of his situation hit him hard at Kings Cross, the scent of old books and productive atmosphere of the library immediately began to put his heart at ease. Tyler wasn’t sure when, but the library began feeling more like home than the actual apartment he shared with two other graduate students.

He was all set to have a productive afternoon, head home, treat himself to a nice meal, and call it an early night. His plan was all set, and there was absolutely nothing that could throw a wrench in it or change it even in the slightest. His sanity – as is the case with most graduate students – was already hanging by a thread, and the slightest disruption to this small haven in the British Library would be enough to drive him wild.

So, as Tyler pushed the doors open to the private study area, the last thing he was expecting was for that door to push back. 

Hard.

Directly in his face. 

And it was loud, too. Much too loud for a library. It then quickly began stammering an apology, and apparently put down the set of power tools it seemed to be holding. 

Tyler, too shocked by what had just happened, had only just begun to realize that what he bumped into was not, in fact, a door, but was a construction worker who simply would not stop apologizing to Tyler.

“I’m – so sorry – didn’t see – door – no peephole – nobody comes here – it’s May – twenty-six degrees – sunshine – are you okay? What are you doing in a library – I’m working here – I’m so sorry – did my drill get you?”

The words came out consecutively in what seemed to Tyler like a never-ending stream, and Tyler could only shake his head in response, hoping it would answer some of the man’s questions.

“Okay. Good. That’s good. You’re sure you’re okay?” the man asked again.

“Yes – ‘m fine. Sorry ‘bout that,” Tyler answered, still unsure what exactly was going on.

It was then that Tyler looked beyond the man he had initially mistaken for a door, and saw that what was once his private study haven was, in fact, under heavy construction. He felt his heart sink three floors down, to where clumsy tourists were pushing the door clearly marked “Pull.”

“What – uh, what are you doing here?” Tyler asked, still not looking at the man.

“Was contracted to spruce this place up a bit. The team in charge of the library assumed nobody would be using this place during the summer, since it’s mostly used by students. What – uh – what are you doing here?” the man asked, standing awkwardly in front of Tyler.

“I’m here to study. Or, well, I was, until…” Tyler gestured to the mess around him. 

“Oh. Yeah. That’s my bad, I guess,” the man said apologetically, unsure what to do with his hands.

“Oh, it’s – uh it’s not – it’s – not …,” Tyler’s voice, confident in an earnest sort of way, was now only coming out in fragments. He had intended to explain to the friendly construction worker that none of this was his fault, and to do so would require eye contact.

But Tyler wasn’t counting on three things. First, that the man would be taller than Tyler. People were rarely taller than Tyler, and yet he had to look up to see the man’s eyes. Second, that the man would be standing so close – a by-product of their having just bumped into each other, no doubt. And third, that the man would be so inexplicably, ridiculously, absurdly handsome. His broad shoulders and back spoke naturally of his field of work, and Tyler was in awe of his sheer size. No wonder Tyler had mistaken this man for a door, he thought – if he had been walking a bit faster he would have mistaken him for a refrigerator. 

“What was that?” the man asked sheepishly.

“Oh – uh, it’s not your fault – I just – had no idea, that’s all,” Tyler finished lamely.

“Oh. Well, still, I’m sorry to ruin your study time,” the man answered.

They shared an awkward silence, each unsure what to do next.

“I’m Tyler –" 

“I’m Jamie –“

They had both spoken at the same time, and giggled nervously at having done so.

“I’m Tyler. I study over at KCL, but I spent most of my time here. Or, at least, I used to,” he said, unsure why exactly a grin was spreading across his face.

 “That’s cool. I’m Jamie. I build stuff,” Jamie answered, a look that can only be described as dopey taking over his features.

“That… that sounded real stupid, bud,” Tyler responded almost instinctively, forgetting he had only just met the man and maybe he wouldn’t catch on to Tyler’s dry wit. 

Tyler’s worries were put at ease, however, when Jamie’s face broke out into a grin, and his gigantic shoulders heaved up and down with his laughter. Tyler was hypnotized.

When they both realized that too much time had passed between them, Tyler was the first to act.

“Well, I’ve gotta find someplace else to study, so – I guess I’ll be off, then,” Tyler finished, unsure why exactly he didn’t quite feel like leaving yet.

Jamie looked inexplicably disappointed by this latest turn of events, but Tyler thought he was just about to melt where he stood if he was in Jamie’s presence for another second.

“Good luck studying,” Jamie called out as Tyler turned on his heels and began walking away.

“Good luck building stuff!” Tyler called out over his shoulder, silently thankful that his voice didn’t crack as he did so, all too aware of the blush creeping up his neck.

At least I’ll never have to see him again, Tyler thought to himself – Tyler, who had never learned to interact with men like Jamie, men who were absolutely, one-thousand-percent, without a doubt his type.

To both Tyler and Jamie’s pleasant surprise, Tyler was entirely wrong about that.

**_/ \\_**

**JUNE 2017**

**COLOGNE, GERMANY**

 

“Do it.” 

“No.”

“Do it!”

“Dylan, I said no.”

“Oh c’mon, Connor, just this once, try to have fun!”

Dylan placed the shot of absinthe just an inch closer to where Connor was sitting at the bar, who backed away from it instinctively.

“Yeah, okay, sure, I’m all about having fun –“

Dylan let out an audible snort, causing the couple next to them to glance in their direction. Connor continued.

“I’m, like, fun-ish,” – he powered past second snort, louder than the first – “but that doesn’t translate into trying this terrifying green liquid, which is, by the way, illegal in Canada.”

“Absinthe isn’t illegal in Canada, it’s just different because of the concentration of wormwood which is regulated differently over international borders,” Dylan responded, as if he were stating the afternoon’s weather forecast.

Connor stared at him with his trademark non-decipherable look.

“How do you even know that?” 

“What?”

“About the wormwood? You failed econ twice but you retain useless information like that?”

“That information is not useless! That information has been integral in my plan to convince you to take the shot of this mysterious potentially-illegal-who-knows substance. And it’s definitely working.”

“It most definitely isn’t, Dylan.”

“Oh but it is, Connor.”

The two friends looked at each other, a brief, electric moment passed, before they burst into laughter.

“Darn it, Dylan –“

“Darn it! Darn it?! Who says darn it?! Holy crap, Connor, you gotta take that shot and then we’re taking you to hip kids language class, I swear!”

And with that, Dylan downed his shot of absinthe, blissfully aware of Connor’s gaze fixed directly on him, reveling in the feeling that nothing but those green eyes could possibly force him to feel. 

Without even another second passing, Connor followed Dylan’s footsteps and downed his shot of absinthe.

Connor and Dylan stared at each other, each trying to hold back the inevitable gag reflex that comes along with taking a shot that strong, and burst into laughter – again – as they both searched the bar for anything to chase it with. Dylan reached behind him, tears of joy clouding his vision, and downed the beer of the woman sitting to his left. The last thing Dylan remembered about that night was the bartender offering the woman another beer, on the house, with a bemused grin on his face, saying something about “these silly Americans.”

Actually, the last thing Dylan remembered about that night was the look on Connor’s face, embarrassed, fierce, determined, as he emphasized to the bartender that they were Canadian, not American, and that there was, indeed, a difference.


	2. Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst! Angst! Here comes the angst!

**MAY 2017**

**PARIS, FRANCE**

Mitch’s life began moving at the speed of light ever since his mother handed him the culinary school’s brochure. One minute he was sitting at this kitchen table, desolate and unmotivated, and next thing he knew he was sitting on an airplane next to an elderly woman named Muriel, patiently waiting for the flight attendants to open the door and allow them off the plane.

Only in this moment of silence, the respite between Muriel’s incessant snoring and the deafening roar of the plane’s engines, did Mitch allow himself to take inventory of all the crazy things he had gone through in order to end up here.

The school itself had been the easy part. They were more than happy to accept Mitch at the beginning of their summer semester, provided he pay a boatload of “late registration fees.” The only thing was, the summer semester began in June, just two and a half weeks after Mitch had learned of the school’s existence. 

If joining a group of classmates already a year into knowing each other wasn’t terrifying enough, (wasn’t this kind of thing supposed to end after high school?), the summer semester wasn’t technically a semester at all, but a stage in a professional working environment. Within hours of paying his registration fees, Mitch received a phone call from the school’s registrar.

“Hello?” Mitch spoke into his phone, unsettled by the strange format of a European phone number.

“ ‘Ello, is zis,” the woman at the other end of the line paused. “Mitch-ell Mar-nehr?”

Mitch had to suppress a laugh at how the woman pronounced his name. He’d been to Quebec city twice on field trips and had expected her voice to sound similar to the aggressive, choppy French he heard spoken there. Instead, this woman’s voice was lilting and melodic, and would have been beautiful if she had been trying to say anything but Mitch’s name. In this woman’s mouth, Mitch’s name sounded out of place and awkward, like trying to pass off mac and cheese as haute cuisine.

“Uh, pardon?” the woman spoke up again.

“Hi – yes, this is me, Mitch.”

“Hello Mitch-ell,” (another laugh from Mitch.) “I am just calling to inform you that your stage ‘as been organized for you already.”

“My – my stage. Yes, naturally, of course.” Mitch had tried to come across as casual and aloof, and instead he sounded more like an alien trying to pass itself off as human.

“You weell be working at Panache. I have forwarded the information to your e-mail address…” the woman at the other end of the line paused, and Mitch heard the rustling of paper. Evidently she was struggling to read his e-mail address. “TorontoMapleLeafs_and_Pizza_rox@hotmail.com?” 

 Mitch felt himself blushing despite being on the phone. He hadn’t expected anyone to actually read his ancient email address to him out loud over the phone, and figured it had been included in the registration as just a formality. Suddenly, his father’s voice urging him to “get an adult e-mail for crying out loud” rushed to the front of his memory.

“That’s me,” Mitch admitted.

“Wond-ehr-ful. As I was saying, you can find all ‘ze information for your stage in the email.”

Something about the woman’s voice began bothering Mitch, as if he could almost detect a sense of pity in her tone.

“That’s great, thanks."

“When you arrive in Par-ee,” the woman continued, “someone from ‘ze bakery will pick you up at ‘ze airport. Do you ‘ave any questions?”

 “Uh – none for now.” 

“Okay. _Au revoir_ ,” the woman said as the line went silent.

Mitch held the phone in his hands, unsure what to make of the woman’s strange tone. It was almost as if she felt sorry for him – but why? They had spoken to each other at least three times over the course of the last week, and until now she had been excited at the prospect of registering this last-minute student. 

Mitch had shrugged his shoulders and set his mind on other things, too busy to spend any more time thinking about their strange conversation.

Now, as he stood waiting for his luggage to appear on the conveyor belt in front of him, he couldn’t help replaying the conversation in his mind. What could possibly account for the almost apologetic quality in her voice?

As Mitch headed towards Arrivals in search of his ride, the answer to that question (though Mitch didn’t know it at the time), was staring him in the face.

He noticed, first, the sign saying nothing but “Panache.” As he glanced around the crowd of limo-drivers and sign-holders, he noticed none bearing any mention of his name, and figured that must be the sign intended for him.

In hindsight, it was absurd that the first thing Mitch noticed was a piece of paper and not the person holding it, but everything about Mitch’s life now seemed absurd altogether. And besides – the paper itself was beautiful, edged with white lace and printed on a delicate shade of purple, so much more inviting than the harsh black and white of the other signs around him. 

It wasn’t until Mitch saw the person holding the sign that he stopped dead in his tracks.

He didn’t know what to expect from the person dispatched to meet him except for the fact that his name was Auston – that was all that had been included in the registrar’s email. Until Mitch saw this Auston in real life, he had assumed it would be an older, jovial-looking baker, much like his old boss Bernard. Even Henriette, intimidating as she was, was a good twenty years older than Mitch.

Instead of the Santa Claus-esque figure he imagined in his head, however, Auston looked to be about Mitch’s age. But Mitch would be lying if he said that Auston’s age was the first thing he noticed about him – or the second, or third, or even fourth. First, it was his hands. They gripped the intricate sign firmly, and his large hands only made the delicate sign look even more fragile. Then, Mitch’s eyes traveled up Auston’ arms – large, firm, and bulging ever so slightly at the seams of his white button-down. From there it was a downward spiral for Mitch – he began at Auston’s broad shoulders, and moved down his torso, eyes taking their time going from one button down to the next. Auston’s shirt was tucked into a pair of midnight blue slacks that were almost sinfully tight, clinging to his round thighs and threatening to burst at even the slightest bend.

Mitch, realizing he had been staring for several moments too long, walked over to Auston and held out his hand.

“Hi! I’m Mitch – and I’m guessing you’re Auston?” he asked, trademark smile on his face.

“Yup. Ready?” Auston answered, his voice gruff. It seemed to Mitch like Auston’s main goal in life was to say as few words as possible.

“Sure thing! Which way are we headed?” Mitch asked, undeterred by Auston’s blunt demeanor.

“Just follow me,” Auston answered, and without so much as another look at Mitch, turned on his heels and walked in the opposite direction.

Mitch followed dutifully behind Auston, enjoying the perfect view of Auston’s thick legs straining against the fabric of his slacks.

Mitch realized that, for a handful of reasons, he was absolutely and utterly screwed.

 

 _/ \\_

 

**MAY 2017**

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

The last thing Tyler was expecting was more bad luck.

Two weeks had passed since his study haven at the British Library was stolen from him. He refused to use the words “construction” or “remodelling,” as his roommates had urged him to do, and opted instead for the more dramatic route of pretending like a thief had literally stolen an entire wing of the library out from under his nose. 

Still, Tyler was thankful that the apartment he shared, though cramped, was a quiet and pleasant enough place to study. It didn’t hold a candle to the British Library, in Tyler’s opinion, but it would do as a makeshift study zone until the library was returned to him.

At least, that was the plan, until the roof caved in.

More specifically, the tenant above Tyler had left their sink on, which caused their floor to cave in, which in turn caused the ceiling of Tyler’s apartment to crumble in about eleven different places. His landlord assured him that his insurance would cover the cost of any repairs, but that he would be unable to live in the apartment while they worked. That Tyler was put up in a small hotel room two streets down was little consolation – sharing one room with two other people was hardly an environment conducive to studying. Tyler resigned himself to the almost necessary evil of having to study in a crowded coffee shop, leaving himself to fulfill the worst stereotypes about being a graduate student. 

Tyler was on his fourth trip to his now-unlivable apartment, fetching various things he would need during his temporary stay at the hotel. He trudged quietly up the stairs to the third floor, where yet another box of books and office supplies were waiting to be carried over to his growing pile of stuff taking up a quarter of the already minuscule hotel room. Just as he was putting his key in the door, it swung open in a series of disjointed shouting and swearing.

“Damn – mother of – how does someone even –“ a familiar voice was shouting as Tyler stared dumbfounded at the door.

It took Jamie a solid ten seconds to realize that someone else had opened the door in front of him, and then another ten seconds before he realized that the person in front of him was someone he had met before. His face broke into an unabashed grin at the sight of Tyler, and then slowly tapered off, as if Jamie had wilfully diminished the ferocity of his smile.

“Oh, uh.. hey,” Jamie began. “Sorry ‘bout that. This building is so old it makes any kind of repair a million times harder.”

Tyler could only stare back at Jamie’s face, who, too busy apologizing for cussing, had not yet registered that seeing Tyler was only slightly out of the ordinary.

“No problem big guy,” Tyler offered.

Jamie chuckled silently at the nickname, and Tyler’s stomach did a backflip.

“Hey, wait a sec – what are you – don’t tell me you live here?” Jamie asked.

“Well, not for the next few weeks,” Tyler answered, looking up at Jamie.

“Ah… shit man, what are the odds?” Jamie responded, apologetic.

“Slim to none, I guess. Seems like the big guy up there,” Tyler gestured vaguely above his head, “doesn’t want me to study at all.”

Jamie looked confused for only a second before it dawned on him what Tyler meant. 

“So, first I take away your study spot at the library, and then I invade your apartment. Any chance that big guy up there looks a bit like me?” Jamie asked, offering Tyler a shy grin. 

“Come to think of it, it’s a striking resemblance,” Tyler laughed, unable to hide the grin spreading on his face.

For the second time in two weeks, Tyler found himself staring at Jamie while a mess of construction existed in the background. Again, Tyler was awestruck of Jamie’s size, who took up the entire width of the narrow doorway and was almost tall enough that he’d have to bend down to go through it. 

“Hey, if you’re here,” Tyler asked, hopeful. “Does that mean the library’s done?”

The smile immediately vanished from Jamie’s face. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint, man – the contracting company I work for uses different people for different jobs. I’m mostly demolition and carpentry myself. The more delicate stuff, like plumbing and electrical, all comes after. I don’t think that place’ll be done for another month at least,” Jamie answered, his tone somber.

Still, the little fire that had ignited at the base of Tyler’s stomach wasn’t put out, and he took the news in surprisingly good stride.

“S’all good, I guess. Can’t be helped.”

Jamie seemed relieved that Tyler didn’t seem too dejected, and the two of them shared an awkward silence in Tyler’s doorway. 

“I just gotta grab a few things, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Oh. Uh – sure.”

Jamie just stared at Tyler from his spot in the doorway. 

“My things are… inside my apartment, big guy,” Tyler said after a moment.

Jamie blushed in response, and scrambled to move out of Tyler’s way.

Tyler chuckled at the sight of someone Jamie’s size trying – and failing – to move that quickly. He made his way past Jamie and into his bedroom, picked up his boxes and made his way back towards the front door where Jamie was still standing awkwardly. 

“Do you – uh – do you need a hand carrying that stuff?” Jamie asked, crossing his arms.

The question was ridiculous. Tyler knew that, and Jamie probably knew that too.

Tyler was carrying two boxes, neither of which was larger than a toaster, and he had filled them so haphazardly that neither of them weighed much either. It was impossible that Tyler looked like he was struggling to carry these boxes at all.

And still. Jamie had asked.

Tyler reacted instinctively, his mouth moving before his brain caught up with him.

“Sure thing, if you don’t mind.”

Jamie’s face broke into the now-familiar grin at Tyler’s response. Without another word, he walked over to Tyler, held out his arms, and scooped the boxes right out of Tyler’s grip. His well-defined arms brushed against Tyler’s as he grabbed the boxes, and a course of electricity ran down Tyler’s spine at the contact. 

“I said I needed help, I didn’t say I needed you to carry them for me, big guy,” Tyler chuckled, reaching out his arms to try and grab one of the boxes back from Jamie. 

Jamie swerved to prevent Tyler from grabbing a box, and Tyler’s arm ran along his back instead. A shiver ran down Tyler’s spine from the way Jamie’s back curved and flexed, all hard muscle from years of construction.

Tyler swallowed, hard, forcing back thoughts that were becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

“Have it your way. My hotel’s two streets over,” Tyler said, unable to look Jamie in the eye.

Jamie, pleased at the prospect of putting his strength to good use, set off in front of Tyler towards the lobby of the apartment building.

Tyler locked the door to his apartment, took a deep breath, and followed behind Jamie. 

The memory of Jamie’s strong back was branded into Tyler’s brain, the feeling of muscles tensed up behind the tight fabric of his shirt. When he started imagining what the rest of Jamie’s body would feel like, Tyler’s face grew hot and he could feel himself blushing. As he approached the lobby he tried desperately to think about anything else. 

The sight of Jamie holding the boxes over one shoulder, bicep bulging against the side of a box labelled “Pencils,” was enough to make Tyler trip on the last step. At the sound, Jamie turned around.

“Watch it, bud! Can’t have any injuries on my worksite,” Jamie laughed.

Tyler’s blush deepened, and he could only chuckle in response. The walk was only two blocks, but Tyler silently prayed that he’d make it out of this alive. When Jamie pushed the door open for Tyler with his free arm, and waited patiently for Tyler to walk out first, Tyler felt as though his entire life was the butt of some cosmic, practical joke.

Tyler walked past Jamie, a shiver running down his spine as his shoulder bumped Jamie’s.

If his life were a joke, he thought silently to himself – at least it got one thing right.

 

 _/ \\_

 

**JUNE 2017**

**COLOGNE, GERMANY**

Afternoon light streamed in through the open windows of their hostel room, already empty save for Connor and Dylan. 

Dylan was the first to wake up. Well, first between him and Connor – last out of the eight-person room they were sharing. By the looks of the sun outside, and the fact that it was already a solid thirty degrees, Dylan guessed that it was past noon. The night before had definitely taken its toll. 

He opened one of his eyes, and then the other. Both still worked. That was good.

His head was pounding, but that was to be expected.

What was not to be expected was that he couldn’t feel his right arm.

Beginning to panic, Dylan moved his legs, toes, and then his left arm. Everything still worked. He laid in bed and stared at the bunk above him, but the mattress wasn’t pressed into the bed-frame, as it normally was when Connor was still asleep.

Dylan’s heart pounded – where was Connor?

He was about to get out of bed and investigate when he became acutely aware of a pain in his right arm. That was good – at least his arm was still there.

When he turned over to examine the source of the pain, Dylan’s stomach did a somersault.

Next to Dylan, crammed into the single bed and pinning down his left arm, Connor slept peacefully.

That explained why Connor wasn’t in his bunk, then, Dylan realized.

But now Dylan’s mind was working at a million miles a minute: how had Connor ended up there? Did Dylan invite him in? Did they get into bed like this or had Connor crawled down in the middle of the night? Did any of the other people in their room see them sleeping like this? What time had they gotten back?

Suddenly, a thought raced through Dylan’s mind. Surely they hadn’t…?

He reached his left arm instinctively under the covers, and felt a familiar pair of well-worn boxer shorts.

Okay. So they definitely hadn’t, Dylan thought to himself, only a little disappointed. He let out a small laugh at his own dejection, and turned back towards Connor, still trying to work out how they got into this situation. 

He watched as Connor slept, one breath in, one breath out. Somehow, Connor slept like he did everything else: quietly, earnestly, focused, and maybe just a little awkward. Dylan, on the other hand, slept like he did everything else too: all over the place, noisily, and more than a little clumsy. Something rolled in the pit of Dylan’s stomach, and he suddenly became keenly aware of the way Connor’s body was digging into his arm. Connor’s back was pressed firmly against Dylan’s side, who was lying on his back.

With a pang Dylan realized that he had imagined this scenario dozens of times in his head, but none of his daydreams had involved several shots of absinthe or an inability to remember the night before.

Connor must have somehow sensed his nervous energy, and began stirring next to Dylan. Slowly, he opened one eye, and then the other. As he began to realize where he was, Dylan could only stare.

He turned to look first at the floor, then at Dylan, and then at the lack of space between them. Dylan watched as the same thoughts must have been running through Connor’s head, because his face was becoming increasingly more red.

“Don’t worry, bud. I’ve still got my underwear on.”

“Dyl – what?” Connor’s voice was still groggy with sleep.

“We didn’t… you know. I always sleep naked after –“

“Enough!” Connor cut him off, causing Dylan to laugh.

“You’re kind of – crushing my arm, dude,” Dylan said through a chuckle.

Connor grew even redder at the acknowledgment that they were in such close proximity. As if on cue, Connor leaped out of the single bed, almost thumping his head on the top bunk on his way out.

“No need to rush out, man – let me at least get you breakfast,” Dylan chuckled as he massaged life back into his arm.

Connor, who was clad only in his boxer briefs, began stretching out his limbs after twelve hours of sleep.

Dylan could only lie back and stare as Connor did so, sinuous muscles flexing and curving with every stretch. Connor had always been lithe as the two of them were teenagers, but he had begun putting on muscle more quickly these days, and Dylan could only watch in a mix of admiration, envy, and… a bit of something else thrown in.

Dylan, however, never let his mind go there – not even when Connor was plastered against his body after a wild night out. Dylan had sworn to himself, years before they decided to travel Europe together, that his friendship with Connor was way too important to sacrifice over, at best, a fun night, and at worst the destruction of their entire relationship.

If that meant that Dylan had spent more than a few teary-eyed nights alone, well – that was his own problem.

But now, as Connor raised his arm over his head and back down towards his shoulder, Dylan found it increasingly impossible to ignore the rumblings deep inside his chest. What he felt for Connor – he was sure it was the kind of thing you write books about.

Or, that other people write books about.

Or read books about, really.

Or – that other people read books about.

Dylan didn’t read much.

Maybe he should start reading books? Maybe a romance novel or two might help him understand how to handle his feelings for Connor.

But how on earth would he ever walk with a straight face into the romance aisle of a bookstore. It was downright impossible for him –

“What’s on your mind, Dyl?” Connor’s voice cut through Dylan’s erratic train of thought.

Dylan blushed, as if he were caught doing something he shouldn’t be.

“Just wondering if we’ll make that walking tour this afternoon. You up for it?” Dylan asked, trying his best to be aloof.

Well – as aloof as Dylan Strome could be. 

“I’ll be fine, Dyl. Didn’t have half as much to drink as you did last night,” Connor said as he stretched his arm over his chest.

Dylan glanced down at his watch. 12:30.

“Tour’s at one. Sweet,” Dylan said, more to himself than anyone else. The prospect of a guided tour was just what they needed to avoid discussing what potentially happened – or didn’t happen – the night before. 

After the two of them were showered and changed, all within fifteen minutes, they found themselves walking towards the museum where the walking tour was supposed to start, each with a cheap coffee from the hostel in hand.

“So, what do you think this tour’ll be like?” Dylan asked, more to fill the awkward silence than anything else.

“I think – I think it’ll be…” Connor’s voice trailed off as they rounded the corner in front of the museum.

Most of the tour was already assembled, and the other tourists sat in a circle around a man in a red shirt, speaking confidently with a hint of a German accent. He was clearly the tour guide, even without the label on his short identifying him as “Leon.” He was tall, broad, muscles well-defined and spoke in a way that belied an earnest confidence beneath his stubbled exterior.

He was, in short, the polar opposite of Dylan – who was scrawny, nervous, and, more often than not, a tangled ball of anxiety. 

Dylan looked back at Connor, who had given up the attempt to finish his sentence, and whose mouth was hanging slightly open. Dylan followed his line of sight, and ended up staring directly at Leon.

His stomach sank as he realized something: Connor had never, not once, looked at him like that.


	3. Disappointment

  **PARIS, FRANCE**

Mitch woke up ten minutes before his alarm was set to go off, partly due to his anxiety about his first day and partly because, being from the suburbs of Ontario, he wasn’t really aware that life started so early in downtown Paris. He slid himself out of the dismally small single bed that, according to the porter in his school-owned accommodation, was “the European way.”

As he stared out onto the street below, Mitch let out a shaky breath, nervous about what was to come and exhilarated at the prospect. He rubbed his hands together absentmindedly, admiring an objectively unimpressive view that Parisian natives had surely grown to resent, but one that was altogether new to Mitch. The cobblestone streets, the ancient sidewalks, the buildings clumped together leaving no room in between, colourful store fronts and cars crammed in every direction; all of them told Mitch that this was really happening, that he was here and pursuing his dreams, that it might be terrifying or fail to live up to his expectations but, no matter what, he had tried it. He was satisfied with the thought, caught up in the view, itching to get his first day started when something on the street caught his eye.

Or, rather, two things on the street caught his eye.

To be more specific, two large legs, attached to an even larger torso, confidently striding along the very street that had affirmed Mitch’s existence mere moments ago. As Mitch stared (harmlessly, he assumed) at the man walking down the street, he realized with a sinking feeling that he recognized this man.

It was Auston (Panache’s most friendly employee, Mitch thought with a smirk), walking with his hands in his pockets which did absolutely nothing to detract from the way his pants clung to his big thighs.

Mitch shook his head as if to rid himself of the thought. Auston had mentioned that he lived close to Panache and that the accommodation in which Mitch was housed was just as close, but Mitch never imagined seeing him walk down the street on his way to work. What made the whole situation altogether unbearable was just how adorable Auston looked as he walked down the road. Mitch knew it was absurd to call someone that large and unpleasant cute, but that’s exactly what he looked like. He clearly had no idea that someone was watching him from two stories up, and his face belied the soft exterior within: he wasn’t smiling per se, but Mitch assumed that was about as close as Auston ever got to a full-on grin.

In spite of himself, Mitch found that he couldn’t help admiring Auston’s gruff confidence, sure that there was a more pleasant side hidden beneath the bakery’s pristine white uniform. If Mitch wondered what else was hidden beneath the uniform, well, that was for him to know.

He showered quickly – actively trying to avoid thinking about Auston’s thighs – and made his way down the very same street that he had seen Auston walking down only an hour before. He followed the directions to the bakery given to him via e-mail, thankful that his incredibly brief French language education had taught him the difference between left and right.

Mitch arrived at Panache with five minutes to spare. It was an unassuming storefront, blending in with all the other adorably French bakeries Mitch had passed on his way from the airport to his house. Still, Mitch knew that there was something special about this one. Obviously, that was his bias talking – he knew that – but he took a deep breath regardless. He knocked on the glass door and stood back, admiring the place where he was to spend the next year of his life.

The bakery occupied the ground floor of a four-storey building, jutting onto the street with a little patio and a burgundy awning printed with the bakery’s name. Beneath _Panache_ was a small subtitle that read “ _depuis 1971_ ,” the year the bakery was opened and which was, to Mitch’s understanding, an eternity ago given the average lifetime of a bakery in Paris. He peered into the glass window, trying to look passed his own reflection, and saw several tables and chairs perfectly aligned, and two display cases that contained a vast array of delicious-looking pastries. Mitch’s fingers twitched at the thought of being able to create those, imagining the happy faces of his customers as they dug into the pastries he made for them. The first display case held an assortment of typical French pastries: fruit tarts, eclairs, and a variety of macarons, but the second exclusively held mille-feuilles. They came in every colour and flavour Mitch could imagine, and a few that he had never even dreamt of. The traditional top layer of icing and chocolate was decorated to reveal patterns in a dizzying array of colours, some elegant and ornate, others colourful and quirky. There was raspberry with gold leafing, or popcorn and pretzels – even a variety that mixed rose petals and pistachios. It was clear that Panache specialized in making mille-feuilles, Mitch noted, always happy to improve his puff pastry technique.

Mitch was staring so intently at the display cases that he didn’t notice Auston waving at him from the other side of the bakery, an annoyed expression colouring his angular features. It wasn’t until Auston walked up to the glass door where Mitch was standing that he noticed him, and immediately turned a shade of red rivalled only by the cranberry and white chocolate mille-feuille that Mitch had his eye on a mere moment ago. He smiled sheepishly at Auston, who only rolled his eyes and unlocked the door, walking back into the bakery without a backwards glance at Mitch.

Mitch tentatively pushed the glass door open, impressed by its weight, and followed Auston behind the rows of tables and display cases. He pushed his way passed a swinging door which opened up onto a view that Mitch couldn’t have imagined even in his most elaborate daydreams.

The kitchen was large, but not enormous enough to be intimidating. A stainless-steel work surface occupied the center of the room, and was flanked by cooktops on one side and the kinds of floor-to-ceiling ovens that Mitch had only seen on television before. Large windows on either side of the room let in the soft morning light, bathing the array of appliances and tools in the soft morning light, making Mitch feel as if he were still dreaming. The whole room smelled strongly of bread mixed with something a little sweeter, an aroma that brought memories of Mitch’s childhood surging to the front of his mind. Mitch stood in the doorway with his mouth hanging slightly open, already imagining what it would be like to work in this gorgeous kitchen.

Auston clearly had the same thought, though without acknowledging any of the reasons why Mitch might be having a moment. Instead, he produced a pocket-knife as if from nowhere and abruptly opened the giant bag of flour perched atop the work surface in front of him, shaking Mitch out of his reverie.

Mitch started at the sound of the paper bag tearing, and looked at Auston in surprise.

“This is a bakery, right?” Auston said, a gruff tone in his voice. “Then – we’re going to bake.”

“S – sure,” was all Mitch was able to stammer out in response.

“I’m guessing you’ve got some experience doing this?” Auston asked.

“Well, we only started the pastry module about a month ago, though I’ve been baking pretty much my whole life, but I’m not sure if that’s what you’re looking for, but I guess I can show you if you –” Mitch was cut off by the sound of Auston’s voice.

“Show me,” was all he said.

Mitch stared at Auston in disbelief, then set his features and reached for the bag of flour. He had no idea what he had done to make Auston dislike him, and decided that even if they were going to be (judging by the tone of Auston’s voice) mortal enemies, they’d at least bake well together. Mitch didn’t come all the way to Paris to have his dreams shattered by someone with a sour attitude and the most wonderful thighs he’d ever seen on a human being.

 

 _/ \\_

 

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

“This is literally the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” Tyler said to himself, shaking his head.

In his hands were two paper bags filled to the brim with sandwiches, fruits, an assortment of beverages (he couldn’t decide what Jamie might like), and even some brownies for dessert. He had spent the whole morning deliberating whether or not this was a good idea, knowing that either way it was something he would do regardless. When Tyler got something in his head, it was impossible to shake his determination. In this case, the thing he had stuck on his mind was Jamie’s broad back, and the best way to justify bringing him some lunch.

The mid-day sun shone brightly on Tyler’s back as he walked along narrow streets crowded with tourists, trying his best not to jostle the copious amounts of food he had brought along. He stared down at the bags hanging from his hands, blushing despite himself as his stomach churned. Surely bringing lunch to someone he had met maybe one and a half times wasn’t so strange? What if Jamie had entirely forgotten who he was, though, and here he was with way too much for food two people to conceivably eat? What if Jamie thought that Tyler was hitting on him? Or worse yet, what if he didn’t?

These thoughts ran through Tyler’s mind on a constant loop, but he was never scared. Romantic thrill was precisely what Tyler lived on. Just the thought of seeing Jamie again was enough to drive him wild, to send his entire body into a frenzy and to make his mind unable to focus on any of the articles he was meant to be reading that morning.

Before he had time to realize it, he was standing at the foot of his building, his home away from home that was now, temporarily, no longer his home. He took a deep breath, summoned up all the courage he needed (which was never that far away to begin with), and pushed his way into the lobby. His hands shook slightly as he dialled his buzzer code, placing one of the bags down so he could use his phone and let himself into the building. As he picked up the bag and made his way down the hallway, his heart leapt at the sound of a familiar voice, already recognizing its cadence, its lulls and dips.

The voice was coming from one floor up, what English people referred to as the first floor but what Tyler still stubbornly called the second floor. He padded his way up the carpeted stairs, careful to be completely silent in his approach – Tyler may have been a fully functioning adult, but there was no way he could resist a good surprise. As he drew closer to his front door – which would have been wide open, judging by how clearly he could hear Jamie’s voice – the words he was speaking began to grow a little clearer.

“That’s literally the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Well –”

A pause.

“Yeah, Amy, that’s cause I love you, duh.”

Tyler’s heart sank.

Like, ground floor sank.

No, like, London underground sank.

He stood motionless on the staircase, Jamie’s voice now just a distant buzzing in his head.

Of course.

Of course, Jamie had a girlfriend, and of course they were madly in love with each other – how couldn’t she be?

Tyler stood at the top of the staircase, just two walls between he and Jamie at this point. It was ridiculous for him to react this strongly at what was essentially a non-event; he and Jamie had maybe shared eye contact for a half-second longer than was normal, and Tyler had taken that to mean that his feelings were reciprocated. Tyler had a long history of reading into things where there really was nothing, but something about Jamie felt different, like it actually meant something this time, that the lingering glances were proof positive of some hidden love, and Jamie was just too shy to say anything himself.

Tyler shook his head and roused himself out of his daydream. It was dangerous to go down the road, and all he could do at this point was cut his losses and try and regain some of his self-composure.

Jamie’s voice continued to ring out through the hallway, but Tyler wasn’t paying attention to the words he was saying. It would hurt too much to continue having this worst possible outcome confirmed over and over again. Instead, he let the sound of Jamie’s voice wash over him, intent on this being the last time he’d ever hear it. Falling in love and having his heart broken all within a matter of days was, at this point, routine for Tyler. He figured this would be like all the other times, where within a few weeks’ time he would fall in love with someone else and the whole process would repeat itself.

He tried desperately to ignore the voice inside himself that told him this one was different, that it felt different, that it was nothing like the other times, that Tyler had never felt this way before, that if he left now he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

With that last thought, he heard Jamie burst into another bout of uproarious laughter, and the sound sent a shiver down Tyler’s spine, his cheeks reddened, his stomach lurched.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Tyler mumbled to himself.

He dropped the bags of lunch at the top of the staircase and, without so much as a backwards glance, made his way down the familiar staircase of his apartment building.

He stepped out of the lobby onto the quiet sidewalk, staring idly at the street that now felt corrupted with the memory of Jamie talking, so obviously in love with someone else. His voice slid out of Tyler’s mind and onto the pavement, colouring the overhanging trees and parked cars, the mild sun streaming through heavy clouds, ineffably changing the way Tyler would experience a road that, once well-known to him, now felt strange and unfamiliar.

He walked down the road, painfully aware of his sulking gait and unable to do anything about it, all his effort concentrated on not looking back towards his apartment where, within minutes, Jamie would discover lunch meant for two.

 

 _/ \\_

 

**COLOGNE, GERMANY**

Three hours had passed on their guided tour and Dylan’s feet started to hurt. It was to be expected, really; he had insisted on buying a new pair of shoes the day before he and Connor left for Europe and, despite literally everyone’s advice that they wouldn’t be worn in in time, he brought them along as his only pair of shoes for the whole trip. If he only bought them because Connor had made a passing comment about how Dylan would look “pretty good” in them – well, that was his problem and nobody else’s.

So here he was, incredibly aware of the blister forming on his right ankle, and unable to summon up the courage to stop the tour for half a minute so he could pop into the nearest pharmacy and pick up some band-aids.

He and Connor hadn’t spoken for the better part of the last three hours except for the occasional grunt or “that’s cool,” in reference to the Hohenzollern Bridge. Connor liked bridges, apparently, and Dylan made a mental note of that and filed it in the part of his mind that he tried his best never to go into.

Their next stop was the Cologne Cathedral, something Dylan was dreading. It wasn’t that he disliked history per se, it was that nobody in the world seemed to match Connor’s enthusiasm for the most mundane historical trivia. Really, Dylan found it endearing how earnestly Connor listened to all of their tour guides and read every. Single. One. of the informational placards posted near things of the least historical significance. The reason Dylan was dreading the Cathedral, as with the other tours they’d been on so far, was that he was never able to manage his – feelings – for Connor while he watched his eyes light up at each and every minute historical fact. Dylan found himself getting lost in Connor’s eyes, the way they lit up as he quietly but excitedly absorbed each new detail, genuinely excited by history in a way that Dylan could barely understand.

Something was different this time, though. Dylan had managed to wade through the swamp of emotions he felt whenever he watched Connor do – well, anything – up until now. But knowing that they were about to enter yet another really old building, and that Connor’s eyes would light up not because of some dumb joke Dylan said, but because of the trail of historical facts coming out of their tour guide’s mouth – he wasn’t sure he could handle that.

“Dyl, you’re limping.”

Connor’s voice broke Dylan out of his daydream.

“What?”

“You’re limping. Do you have a blister? It’s the shoes, isn’t it?”

Dylan’s heart couldn’t help but leap at the obvious concern in Connor’s voice.

“Yeah, but I’ll be fine. Don’t wanna slow down the tour or anything, y’know,” he answered, putting on his best brave face.

Dylan’s mood worked like this: it was entirely contingent on the amount of attention he received from Connor. It didn’t make any sense, nor was it a particularly healthy or helpful attitude, but he had come to terms with the fact that that’s just the way his mind, heart, body, whatever, worked. Connor’s offhand comment about his obvious blister, translated in Dylan’s mind, read roughly as: he’s thinking about me, he was looking at me long enough to notice that I was limping, he cared enough to say something, maybe he’s even offering to help me, he doesn’t think I’m a useless lump of garbage and maybe he actually even sort of a little but likes –

“We’ll get you a band-aid, c’mon,” Connor said, cutting through Dylan’s thoughts.

If Dylan was on a high as he watched Connor walk right through the center of their tour group to demand that they stop and get his blister sorted, then he was at absolute rock bottom as he watched Connor and their tour guide laugh with each other, as they pleasantly told the group that they were taking a small pit stop, and as they all started at Dylan with pitying eyes.

Their tour guide, whose name Dylan had avoided saying or thinking about for the duration of their tour, was now leading them in the direction of a pharmacy two streets over, with Connor faithfully at his side. Dylan trudged on, unaware of the pain in his foot, as he watched the way Connor and – Leon, Leon, Leon, his name came screaming through Dylan’s head – Leon fell into step so comfortably, so effortlessly, Connor having to look up slightly to meet his gaze.

The tour lasted another few hours, most of which Dylan spent with two friendly women from Montreal while Connor was up ahead, soaking up every word that came out of Leon’s mouth with a gaze that Dylan would have given anything to have trained on him.

Somewhere between their fourth and fifth museum of the day, Dylan was determined to quash whatever it was that he felt for Connor once and for all. If that meant making it to the end of their trip and never speaking to him again for as long as they both lived – his heart sank at the thought – then so be it. Even that would be better than spending another moment staring at Connor with listless eyes, wishing to be close to him in a way that he couldn’t even admit to himself, let alone to anyone else.

They arrived back at the hostel just as the sun was setting, both of them silent and spent after a long day of sightseeing and, for Dylan at least, emotional turmoil. Connor threw his backpack onto Dylan’s bottom bunk, clearly too tired to place it a few feet higher.

“Do you wanna get dinner? I’m absolutely starved.”

Connor’s voice rang through the room they normally shared with six other travelers, eerily quiet. The silence forced Dylan to face Connor’s words head on, unable to hide behind the din of background noise that was normally supplied by a gaggle of girls or rowdy teenage boys.

“Sure, whatever,” he mumbled back.

“Okay cool, what’ll it be?”

“Whatever.”

“More bratwurst? I know how much you loved that cart selling it a few streets over.”

“Okay.”

“Or something else? There’s that tiny little place we’ve been meaning to try on the street where you spilled a coffee on your shoes last week.”

“Whatever.”

Connor’s voice grew more and more concerned with Dylan’s lack of enthusiasm. Dylan heard the worry in Connor’s voice and attributed it only to an unwillingness on Connor’s part to forego even a night of their pleasant vacation. It was impossible, of course, for Dylan to ignore the voice in his head urging him to believe that Connor genuinely cared about him, that maybe he could talk about what was bothering him, that maybe Connor cared so much because he liked him too –

Dylan shook his head. Best to start ignoring that voice now, he thought to himself.

“Dyl? What’s up?”

“Nothing. Feeling kinda tired actually. Move your bag off my bunk, I’m gonna sleep. Sort dinner out yourself.”

Dylan spoke in harsh tones that tasted foreign in his mouth, as if his body was rejecting the act of being rude to Connor. Dylan swallowed the sour taste down his throat, unable to even look Connor in the eye as he moved his backpack to his own bunk.

“Uh, sure dude.”

Dylan climbed onto bed without so much as a glance in Connor’s direction, leaving him standing there with an empty expression on his face.

“I’ll just go to sleep too, then. Get an early start for tomorrow.”

Dylan recognized the forced tone in Connor’s voice, so subtle you wouldn’t recognize it if you didn’t know him as well as Dylan did. He realized this with a pang and his stomach lurched, tears stung at the corners of his eyes. He turned his body towards the wall hoping Connor wouldn’t notice the slow trickle from eyelash to pillow.

He listened, with eyes closed, as Connor went through the familiar routine of getting ready for bed. Dylan predicted each of his movements without even thinking about it: brushing teeth, combing hair, staring in the mirror for a few minutes but pretending not to, a few stretches, and then the ruffling through his bag in search of pyjama bottoms. Heat crept up Dylan’s chest as he thought about Connor undressing right next to him, something he’s watched him do a million times before but for some reason today, in the wake of Dylan’s flood of emotions, even this familiar act moved him to feel affection like a blunt force straight to his heart.

He laid there in silence as Connor climbed onto the bunk above him, his movements betraying an anxiety that Dylan was sure he caused. He listened as Connor shuffled around in bed, trying to find a comfortable position, and eventually, as his breath evened out, Dylan tried to fall into a restless sleep. He woke in fits throughout the night, both thankful for and resentful of the few feet of space between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been... seventy years. But the angst was MORE than ripe for the picking!


	4. Confusion

**PARIS, FRANCE**

Three weeks had passed since Mitch started working at Panache and, for all but one thing, they were among the happiest weeks of his life. He would wake at dawn, often before his alarm was even set to ring, eager to face the day ahead. He enjoyed an energy that was previously unknown to him, a willingness to work that was absent throughout the entirety of his time at school. He discovered a pleasure in even the drudgeries of the bakery’s daily operations, enjoyed the soreness in his muscles after a day on his feet, hoisting bags of flour on his shoulder, endlessly kneading bread. He especially enjoyed working behind the pastry counter, took pride in watching children’s eyes light up from behind the glass as they surveyed the assortment of pastries that, for them, were at eye-level, and spoke to their parents in broken French, his signature toothy grin gaining the confidences of even the chilliest Parisians.

Mitch crawled into the single bed he had grown accustomed to look forward to at the end of each day, content, the linger of a smile on his lips. If one thing kept him up at night, if one thing caused him to lay awake tossing and turning, if one thing was responsible for not a small amount of melancholic lunch breaks spent alone, it was his mentor, Auston.

For all intents and purposes, their relationship was strictly professional. Auston had been assigned to Mitch by his school, and Mitch knew from other students that he was being paid a small amount to take on an apprentice. Mitch was under no false impression that Auston had signed up for the school’s mentor scheme out of the goodness of his heart – Paris was an expensive city, and clearly he had to make ends meet somehow.

But Mitch was used to people not doing things out of the goodness of their hearts – he may have been positive and idealistic, often coming across as naïve, but behind that was a cleverness that allowed him not to be disappointed when the world – inevitably – let him down. Why should this situation, then, be any different?

It was this question that Mitch repeated to himself over and over again, in the bakery’s storage room surrounded by boxes of ingredients waiting to be transformed into joy at the hands of his customers, at night when he lay awake in bed, the sounds of the city a constant background hum.

In reality Mitch knew the answer – he was too clever, and knew himself too well not to – but he was scared of admitting it to himself. He was scared that if he admitted it to himself, he would have to admit it to other people, that was how his mind worked. He never was good at keeping secrets, not even his own, and assumed that the best way to deal with that was to never engage with them at all. As long as he didn’t admit to himself how he felt, and who was making him feel that way, and why it bothered him so much that a certain someone wouldn’t so much as smile in his direction – then he’d be fine.

Rain tapped lightly against the window of Mitch’s room, waking him gently. For a moment, he was disoriented – sometimes still forgetting that he was across the Atlantic, in Paris, and not stuck in rural Ontario. He stretched his legs under his blanket, working out how sore he was from the day before when Auston (his stomach lurched at the thought of his name, but he brushed it away) had asked him to handle this week’s moulding chocolate delivery. And that was it. Once Auston popped into his head there was no way to get rid of him until he fell asleep. He looked out of the window and took in the rain, the dark clouds overhead that barely held back the downpour he was sure would come later in the day. A phrase flew to the front of his mind, something he hadn’t thought about in years, since high school English: pathetic fallacy. He chuckled to himself.

After a quick shower and a walk down the narrow streets that had already become familiar to him, Mitch found himself once again pushing open the heavy glass doors of Panache, left unlocked by Auston who had started doing so ever since he announced that he found it tiresome to wait for Mitch to show up. With a deep breath Mitch walked into the bakery, breathed in the familiar mixture of yeast and sweetness, and searched for any sign of Auston. He heard rustling in the kitchen, checked his watch, and rolled his eyes: Auston had started the bread for that day early, as usual.

Mitch stepped into the kitchen and found not Auston kneading bread, as he expected, but Auston pacing back and forth, holding a small envelope in his hands.

“What’s up, Aus?”

Auston stopped in his tracks, his head snapping in Mitch’s direction.

“I told you not to call me that.”

Aus was a nickname that Mitch had started using in the hopes of gaining Auston’s friendship. Auston immediately barked at him not to call him that, but it had already stuck in Mitch’s brain: he couldn’t stop using it even if he wanted to.

“It’s just a nickname, dude, chill out.”

“Whatever.”

This was grumpy, even for Auston, who never greeted Mitch with anything more than a neutral monosyllable.

“What’s got you so upset this morning?” Mitch ventured cautiously.

“What are you doing tonight?” Auston blurted out.

Of all the possible responses to that question, Mitch had to admit that this one wasn’t even remotely in the realm of possibility.

“Excuse me?”

“Tonight. What are you doing.”

“Uh. Going home and watching tv – literally the usual?”

“Adele’s birthday is today and she’s celebrating after work at a bar down the road. She wants us both to come.” Auston held up the envelope he was holding, as if to indicate both the source of his discomfort and the invitation.

Adele, the kitchen manager, was an incredibly friendly woman in her mid-thirties. Mitch had no idea that it was even her birthday – they barely ever spoke – but thought it was incredibly sweet of her to invite not just Auston, who was altogether disagreeable even on the best of days, but his lowly apprentice.

“Sweet! That’s real nice of her,” Mitch answered, more to himself than to Auston.

“Work parties. The worst,” Auston grumbled in response.

Mitch rolled his eyes in Auston’s direction, intent on not letting his boss ruin what would effectively be his first night out in Paris.

“I’ll meet you outside here at eight? I’ve gotta shower before we go – the one thing nobody tells you about working in a bakery is that flour ends up literally everywhere. I swear yesterday when I got home there was some in my underwear,” Mitch groaned, gesturing to his middle as if to emphasize the point.

Auston – inexplicably – blushed, and stammered something about occupational hazards.

“So, whaddaya say? Are you up for tonight, boss?”

“I told you not to call me that either.”

“Whatever, dude,” Mitch said with a grin. “Let’s loosen up a bit tonight, yeah?”

Somehow, that last word came out with an air of finality that ended the conversation then and there. Mitch assumed that Auston would invent some excuse at the last minute, and, frankly, he was relieved to not have to deal with Auston all evening, and looked forward to the prospect of enjoying the company of his other coworkers and maybe even some of Adele’s non-bakery friends. He worked in an exceptionally good mood for the rest of the day, and felt Auston’s gaze on him more than a few times. He chalked it up to their conversation that morning and went about his day.

When, after returning home, showering, and putting on the nicest outfit he had bothered to pack at his mother’s insistence, Mitch almost decided not to walk past the bakery, sure that Auston wouldn’t be there. The route to the bar where Adele was celebrating was circuitous enough through the labyrinthine streets of Paris, and to include the bakery on his way would certainly add a few extra minutes to his walk. Mitch was all about efficiency, clearly. This had nothing to do with the disappointment of turning the corner and seeing the bakery’s front doors in the distance, with no large, familiar frame standing awkwardly in front of them.

Naturally, Mitch began his walk and found himself on the way to the bakery. Force of habit, he told himself, and nothing else. He would walk by Panache, find Auston not waiting for him, and continue on to have a good night. He refused to admit to himself why the disappointment of Auston not waiting for him threatened to ruin his entire evening. He shook his head to avoid even broaching the topic, and marched onwards. As he turned the corner onto the street where the bakery would just become visible in the distance, his heart began thrumming and he could feel his pulse in his ears. His palms became clammy and he could feel his stomach roiling in anticipation.

Mitch had thought so long and so hard on the possibility that Auston wouldn’t show up that he, before he even realized it, had accepted it in his head as an inevitability. Nothing in this world could have prepared him for the sight that was waiting for him in the distance.

In front of the bakery’s familiar doors stood Auston, hair groomed in a way that only accentuated his firm jawline. He wore a pastel blue suit on top of a crisp white shirt, and pants that clung perfectly to all the right places. His arms pressed against the sleeves of his suit jacket, and – even from a distance – Mitch could tell that, had the suit been a size smaller, there would have been no room for his sizable biceps. Auston held in his hands a bouquet of flowers, maybe a dozen tulips – nothing garish or overstated – and Mitch couldn’t help but notice how large and strong Auston’s hands looked against the delicate paper in which the flowers were wrapped.

Mitch stopped only for a moment – in surprise, not to admire – and continued on his march towards the bakery. Auston must have caught the movement in his eye and turned to look in his direction, only nodding solemnly in acknowledgment of Mitch’s presence. Mitch, for his part, threw his hand in the air and waved vigorously at Auston, bordering the precipitous edge between joy and worry. On the one hand, here was Auston – handsome, strong, boss-man Auston – ready to enjoy Mitch’s company on a night out. On the other hand, here was Auston – handsome, strong, boss-man Auston – ready to dislike Mitch’s company on a night out. And Mitch had no idea which way the night would swing.

“Don’t you look snazzy,” Mitch opened with, once he was in earshot.

“Uh. Sure.”

At this point, something happened that completely baffled Mitch. Auston held out the bouquet of flowers in Mitch’s general direction, and stood there in complete silence. Mitch responded first by instinctively reaching for the flowers, and then by looking at Auston for any sign of an explanation. When it became clear that Auston wasn’t going to say anything, Mitch took the lead.

“Are these for Adele?”

A look of confusion flashed across Auston’s face, and, for the first time, Mitch saw in his expression something he had never expected to see there: timidity. Auston was never short on words, and always knew just what to say, even if it was limited to a grunt or an angry huff. Now, instead, Auston seemed lost for words, and Mitch could see the tightness in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes as he searched for what to say. He swallowed hard and Mitch couldn’t help but be entranced by the stiffness of his neck, the lips held slightly apart in the shape of an ‘o’ which would have been comical if it weren’t so jarring to see anxiety etched onto Auston’s otherwise stoic features.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Auston spoke.

“Oh. Uh. Yeah – Adele – sure – birthday, of course, yeah,” he stammered out, inching the bouquet of flowers slightly closer to his chest.

Mitch looked at him in what he was sure was a gaze of utter confusion, hoping for any kind of an explanation. A thought flashed through Mitch’s head, totally unprompted and entirely unwelcome. Had the flowers been intended for him? And once that question flashed through his mind, it brought along with it a series of even more ridiculous ones. Why would Auston bring Mitch flowers? Were they intended as an apology for the way he had been treating Mitch since he arrived? Then that would mean that Auston was aware of his rudeness, and that it had been at least somewhat intentional, though Mitch had always just assumed that’s just how Auston was. What on earth was going on beneath that gruff surface, what mysteries did those muscles mask?

Mitch realized that neither of them had spoken for nearly a minute, staring at each other in a deeply uncomfortable silence. He took it upon himself to fill that silence with words, even if he knew that Auston preferred it the other way around.

“That’s real nice of you,” he ventured. “So, this bar – have you been there before?”

Auston clung to Mitch’s words as if he were out at sea and they were a life raft, a wave of relief washing over his face.

“Yeah. It’s pretty much where we all celebrate our birthdays. You’ll see.”

And with that, what had easily been the strangest moment of Mitch’s time in Paris so far passed, the only reminder that it had ever happened was the tumult left in his stomach, and the lingering questions he was struggling to keep out of his mind.

They began the walk to the bar, Auston stepping to one side to allow Mitch to walk alongside him. Mitch tried to fill the silence in his usual way but found that his confidence was shaken. For the first time in his life he felt like he didn’t know what to say, that the words weren’t coming to him in the effervescent stream in which they normally flew straight out of his mouth. Auston must have sensed this discomfort and tried, in his way, to compensate for Mitch’s inability to talk. He made the occasional remark about some street or some business that they passed, and Mitch was thankful even just for dull conversation.

Then, just before they got to the bar, Auston stopped abruptly and stared up at the building to his left, one of a series of typical Parisian apartment buildings that Mitch had gotten used to within a week of being there. He stared at Auston, waiting patiently for an explanation. Auston continued to stare at the building in silence, his gaze transfixed on a window on the third floor. After thirty seconds, Auston finally spoke.

“This is the apartment building I stayed in when I first moved here,” he began. Mitch smiled at the admission.

“I know I come across as mean and terrible,” Auston said, and Mitch was floored by the non-sequitur. Mitch looked into Auston’s face for an explanation and was surprised to find that Auston was no longer staring at the third-storey window, but was instead looking directly at him.

“And I might be. But it’s really nice that you’re not, Mitch.”

With that, Auston started off in the direction of the bar, without even looking back at Mitch, who scrambled to keep up with Auston, his head stuck in a cloudy daze. Had Mitch been entirely wrong about Auston this whole time?

They got to the bar minutes later, an establishment like the dozens of others Mitch had seen on the walk over. The kind of place tourists would love to take photos in front of but which seemed entirely ordinary to anyone who had spent longer than a week in the city. Auston continued his march without looking at Mitch and pushed open the large wooden door, holding it open behind him for only a fraction of a second. Mitch hurried through and took in the pleasant atmosphere of dark wood and low lighting as he followed Auston to the sound of laughter coming from a room nestled somewhere in the back.

The party was clearly in full swing by the time they showed up, and Adele seemed to be enjoying her birthday so much – this was made evident by the empty wine glasses in front of her – that she didn’t immediately notice Auston and Mitch’s appearance. When her languid gaze finally fell on them, first on Mitch and then on Auston, her eyes grew large, and she made no effort to contain her surprise. She shouted out in English with a heavy accent:

“Auston! Is that! – ‘ow is thees posseeble?! ‘ee ‘as come to celebrate my _anniversaire_! _Merveilleux_! And ‘e even brought my _des fleurs! Fantastique!_ ”

Auston blushed, first at the attention that he was getting from the bakery’s other employees – generally positive – and then, at least it seemed to Mitch, at the admission that on tonight, of all night’s, Auston had actually made the effort to join them in a social setting. He handed the bouquet to Adele with a modest shyness that seemed at odds with his imposing frame. It was clear that the others were treating this as a rarity, and Mitch tried hard not to let his mind slip into the familiar habit of hoping beyond hope that maybe he had a part to play in Auston’s decision to come out tonight.

Adele got up and planted two loud, wet kisses on each of Auston’s cheeks, and if it were possible for his blush to deepen any further then Mitch was sure that it would have. Then, Adele focused her attention on Mitch, and looked at Auston briefly with a conspiratorial smile.

“And ‘ere we ‘ave the newest member of ze fameely! Mitchee!”

She then kissed both of Mitch’s cheeks and returned to her seat, a conniving smile lingering on her features and her gaze which she trained directly on Auston, making Mitch aware that there existed a confidence between them that he hadn’t expected.

Mitch turned his attention on finding a seat, and found, both to his dismay and joy, that the group had left a spot open at the end of the table, a booth just big enough for two. Auston must have made the same realization and trained his eyes back to Adele, who had resumed her indefatigable drinking of red wine and stared back at Auston with a content gaze.

“Shall we?” Mitch asked, ever eager to take the plunge.

Auston nodded with a solemn reticence, placed his hand on the small of Mitch’s back, and gave him a gentle push in the direction of the booth. Electricity ran through Mitch’s body at the contact, and he missed the tethering feeling Auston’s hand had brought to him the second it was gone. He slid into the end of the booth, trying to make room for Auston, which proved to be no easy task given how large he was.

“Cozy, isn’t it?” Mitch asked with a grin.

Auston only responded with a gruff laugh, which would normally have read as his typical rudeness, but Mitch was almost certain he detected shyness lingering underneath the surface of that stoic exterior. Wishful thinking, he said to himself, and quickly realized that he needed a drink.

“What’ll you have?” Mitch asked in Auston’s general direction, indicating their lack of beverages. Auston jumped at the excuse to leave Mitch’s proximity, with he noticed with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“I’ll get this round. Beer?”

Mitch nodded his assent, and watched solemnly as Auston strode quickly towards the bartender. He realized, seconds too late, that he was staring at Auston’s back even while he ordered their drinks, and turned his attention to the table, hoping to start up a conversation with Adele. Adele, for her part, was already looking at Mitch, and clearly understood where his gaze was lingering. She giggled from behind that same conspiratorial smile she had given Auston, but otherwise made no acknowledgment that she understood exactly how Mitch was feeling. It was clear, at least for Mitch, that she didn’t have to.

When Auston finally returned with their drinks, Mitch was in a deep conversation with the woman sitting to his left, so he placed their beers quietly on the table and waited patiently. It took a few sentences for Mitch to realize that Auston had returned, and he blushed deeply when he felt the sensation of Auston’s strong leg pressed up against his.

“Thanks for the beer,” Mitch said, picking it up and taking a long swig. “What do I owe ya?”

“This one’s on me.”

Mitch, if possible, blushed even deeper, and tried to bury his face behind his pint.

The night continued like this – Mitch taking charge of the conversation with the other bakery employees while Auston sat quietly next to him, offering the occasional comment or well-meaning sarcastic remark. If Mitch was at all shy about socializing with his new colleagues, many of whom he hadn’t met before, he was thankful for Auston’s strong presence next to him, as if by just being there Auston was urging him on.

Before either of them realized it, hours had passed and their party was the only one left in the bar. At a natural lull in the conversation, Adele stood up at the head of the table, thanked everyone for coming out to celebrate with her, and proudly announced that she would now be leaving to enjoy the company of her bed.

As the party slowly piled out of the room, Mitch realized that soon enough he would no longer feel Auston’s calm strength next to him, that he probably would never be this close to Auston again. He was in the middle of thinking of a way to verbalize this thought to Auston when a rush of cold air against his leg made him look up. Auston had already vacated their booth and was waiting sheepishly by the table, glancing every so often at Mitch.

“Can I help ya, big guy?”

Auston scowled at Mitch’s nickname, and folded his arms in response. Mitch could only blush, and swallowed hard as he took in the way that simple movement made Auston look twice as big.

“Just waiting for a certain apprentice who’s had too many beers to get up so I can walk him home.”

“You! Bought those beers! For me! You!”

Mitch may have even had a point, if he weren’t slurring each of the words coming out of his mouth.

“Right,” was all Auston said as he pointed to the door.

They walked on in silence, punctuated by the occasional poorly-stifled burp on Mitch’s part. Auston walked with the casual confidence of someone who knows their way around, while Mitch followed only a half-step behind, occasionally bumping into Auston’s shoulder. By accident. Totally, definitely, surely, by accident.

Mitch lost track of how far they had walked, too busy working up the nerve to steal the occasional glance up at Auston, who trained his gaze on the road ahead and nothing else, as if he was forcing himself not to look elsewhere. Auston led them around the winding streets of Paris, and Mitch found himself utterly lost despite being within a few blocks of Panache at any given moment. Their pace only let up when Auston stopped abruptly in front of a building that Mitch recognized as his own.]

“You’re home,” Auston said.

“Home. Yeah,” Mitch answered, shuffling his feet.

Auston finally lowered his gaze to Mitch, and found that Mitch was already looking up at him.

“Everything okay?”

“It’s just,” Mitch paused, wary of oversharing. “This place just doesn’t feel like home yet.”

Auston nodded in understanding.

 “I left home on a whim, because I was running away from something. I didn’t think I’d end up here, working at a bakery of all places, and I didn’t ever think I’d be teaching someone things that I myself learned only recently.”

Mitch listened in silence, trying to urge Auston on with a gentle gaze. After a few seconds Auston started speaking again.

“I feel like I’ve always just been looking for distractions. I moved to Paris to distract me from –”

At this point Auston’s eyes darkened, and he picked up after clearing his throat.

“– from life, and I started working at Panache to distract me from the fact that I had moved to Paris, and I decided to take on an apprentice to distract me from the fact that I had started working in a bakery. But you’re not just a distraction, Mitch – I can tell that you love what you’re doing, and it terrifies me to think that I’m letting you down.”

Mitch continued to stand in silence, unsure how to respond to the overflow of emotions tumbling out of Auston’s mouth.

“What I’m saying is – home isn’t an apartment, or a street, or a city. Home is,” Auston turned his entire body in Mitch’s direction, and levelled a finger towards his chest. “Home is in here.”

Mitch looked down at Auston’s hand, index finger outstretched, still pointing at his chest. He looked up to find a softness etched onto Auston’s features that he hadn’t noticed before. He felt his heart flutter in his chest, and his stomach roiled in anticipation. Mitch inched his head almost imperceptibly towards Auston’s, and Auston tilted his head down to meet Mitch’s. Mitch closed his eyes, parted his lips, and felt – a rush of air as Auston took a swift step backwards.

“So. You’re home. That’s – I’m going – bye.”

Auston didn’t so much as wait for a response as he turned on his heel and marched down Mitch’s street, in the direction they had come.

Mitch stood on the front steps of his apartment building for longer than he cared to admit, waiting for Auston return. But it would be a while before Mitch saw Auston – this Auston, the caring, gentle giant, who kinda-maybe brought him flowers and kinda-maybe kissed him – again.

_/ \\_

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

Two weeks had passed since Tyler experienced what he now referred to as the Lunchtime Disaster. He didn’t stick around long enough to find out whether or not Jamie discovered the lunch he bought for the two of them, and if he tried hard enough he could even go a few hours without thinking about it. He also hadn’t bothered to return to either the British Library or his still-under-renovation apartment building, worried he’d run into Jamie. Or worried he wouldn’t. He wasn’t quite sure which option he was more worried about, so he resigned himself to a state of constant worry.

Instead, Tyler spent the majority of his free time in the gym, as a way to avoid both the work piling up on his desk and the lack of air conditioning in England. He chose this particular gym because it looked brand new, as if it had just been renovated. Hopefully no ceilings would cave in here, and nobody would call in Jamie – the only construction worker in all of London, it seemed – to fix it. Taking solace in that fact, Tyler resorted to bench presses and weighted squats, trying desperately to focus on his body instead of Jamie’s.

For the most part, it worked. Whenever he felt that his mind was slipping into the familiar territory of self-deprecation, he would slip a few more plates on the end of his bar, or up the resistance on his stationary bike, forcing his mind to focus on nothing but the physical. He even toyed with the idea of hiring a personal trainer who would really whip him into shape, maybe even shout at him when they saw his mind wandering. Then he realized that hiring a personal trainer as a poor doctoral student was probably the least financially responsible decision he could have possibly made and decided against it. Still, the watchful eyes of other gymgoers was pressure enough to make sure he focused only on his workout and not the shame of having fallen in love with yet another straight man in all of thirty-five seconds.

It was on an unseasonably sunny and warm summer day that Tyler realized the entire universe was conspiring against him. There he was, mid-evening in a crowded gym, enjoying the anonymity and air conditioning. It was chest day – by all accounts the best day of the week – and as he laid back on his favourite bench in a relatively secluded corner of the gym, he thought to himself that maybe life wasn’t all that bad. He pushed himself to add on an extra set at the end of his usual routine, and the thrill of success urged him to throw in an extra mile-long run before showering and heading home. He re-racked his weights, wiped down his bench, and made his way over to the treadmills, which faced a wall of mirrors that reflected the whole gym. Securing his headphones, he switched to a cardio playlist and – nearly fell flat on his face.

At the other end of the gym. bent over a rack of dumbbells, in the most ridiculous tank top and pair of basketball shorts Tyler had ever seen in his entire life, stood Jamie.

Covered-in-sweat Jamie.

Red-in-the-face Jamie.

Arms-bulging-from-his-workout Jamie.

Basketball-shorts-doing-nothing-to-contain-his-gigantic-thighs Jamie.

Tyler stood with his feet on either side of the treadmill’s belt, unable to gather enough strength in his legs to even begin his run. He kept casting furtive glances in the mirror to where Jamie stood, unwilling to look behind himself and see anything more than a reflection.

Tyler let out a low chuckle, causing the woman on the treadmill next to him to give him an inquisitorial stare, and shook his head. The universe really was out to get him, he decided. There was really no other explanation for it. Tomorrow he’d transfer his membership to another gym, and that would be that.

For now, he settled with powering down the treadmill and heading to the shower. Jamie looked like he was in the middle of his workout, so there was little risk of running into him in the locker room.

At that thought, Tyler blushed a deep red. The thought of running into Jamie in the locker room, sweaty from his workout and huffing deep breaths –

It was all getting to be too much.

He navigated his way to the locker room on autopilot, extricated the 3-in-1 body wash-shampoo-conditioner he used despite the constant roasting from his friends, and took the quickest shower of his life. If he normally lingered a little in the locker room, today was entirely different. He wanted to run the smallest risk possible of bumping into Jamie here.

Tyler turned off the water, towelled off, and practically ran back to his locker with his towel wrapped around his waist. In his haste to make a speedy exit, he fumbled a bit with his lock and dropped it on the ground. Before he could pick it back up, a familiar voice was handing the lock back to him, and Tyler’s stomach fell.

“We meet again,” Jamie said, holding the lock in his hand.

Tyler’s mouth went dry, and he couldn’t help but stare at Jamie’s outstretched arm, muscles bulging from what was clearly bis & tris day, a vein curving tantalizingly against his broad shoulder.

Without moving an inch, Tyler just looked up at Jamie’s face, which faltered for a brief moment.

“This is yours, right?” Jamie asked, worried he’d made some grave mistake.

“Lock – mine, yeah,” Tyler responded automatically.

He reached out to grab the lock – with both hands, inexplicably – and only realized far too late that one of those hands was holding up the towel that, until seconds before, was wrapped precariously around his waist.

His towel plummeting to the ground, Tyler abandoned the lock to make a desperate grab for it. Failing miserably, both his lock and towel now rested on the ground at his feet. Tyler lunged downwards with both arms outstretched, hoping to grab the towel and lock in one fell swoop, and only managed to headbutt Jamie, who had already bent down to pick up the lock a second time.

He recoiled backwards, scrambling up the towel and shifting it into a position that – he hoped – would get him out of this situation with even a modicum of dignity remaining.

“So, this is yours,” Jamie said, chuckling, and rested the lock on the bench next to Tyler. “I’m just gonna leave it here, and you pick it up whenever you’re ready.”

Tyler blushed about a trillion different shades of red, and – was he imagining Jamie’s gaze lingering on the way his blush travelled from his cheeks down his neck and towards his chest? Tyler mentally high-fived himself for choosing chest-day today.

“Uh – heh – thanks,” was all Tyler could manage.

They stood for a few seconds in a deeply uncomfortable silence, Tyler itching to just pack up his things and make his way back to the crowded hotel room he still shared with his two housemates. It was Jamie who spoke first.

“So – my work at the library is all done.”

It took Tyler a few seconds to realize what he was talking about. The office at the British Library – where he and Jamie had first met – was finally his to use again.

“Oh. That’s great. I’ve been spending way too much money on coffee these days.”

Jamie looked at him in confusion.

“’Cause – because – I have to study in coffee shops. Where they make you buy coffee if you want to sit there and work. So. I spend the money. On coffee,” Tyler stuttered out.

“Oh. Gotcha!” Jamie answered, flashing Tyler a brilliant but still somehow sheepish smile.

“But now – library again. Nice.”

Tyler made a mental note to kick himself later, maybe in order to regain his ability to speak.

“Yeah. Sorry your apartment won’t be ready for a few more weeks, though.”

“That’s alright. The hotel shower sucks, so I take advantage of the shower here,” Tyler said, and was about to gesture in the general direction of the showers when he realized his hands were still holding his towel in front of his otherwise very exposed lower half. He blushed again – deeper, if possible – and gingerly removed his clothes from his locker with one hand.

Tyler tried to put on his clothes are gracefully as he could, while Jamie turned towards his own locker and fiddled around with whatever was inside. As soon as he was dressed and ready to go, Tyler made a move for the exit and motioned to say a quick goodbye to Jamie.

“So. Be seeing you, then,” Tyler said, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Wait!,” Jamie all but shouted, which caused a few of the other locker room patrons to look up at him.

He blushed, which, Tyler admitted to himself, only made his face look even more blindingly handsome.

“If the, uh, the shower at your hotel, y’know, sucks, you can use mine,” Jamie stuttered out, which looked like it confused himself as much as it confused Tyler.

For his part, Tyler only looked at Jamie with a dumbstruck gaze.

“Well you can use the, the appliances too…,” Jamie trailed off.

Tyler continued to stare in silence, his eyebrows inching higher on his forehead. Jamie’s blush began to reach a critical intensity.

“As in, you can use the appliances. And the shower,” Jamie finished, as if that explained anything.

Tyler, fully clothed and faced with what looked like Jamie struggling to breathe, managed to regain his composure.

“Uh. Thanks for the offer, bud, but I’m just gonna go ahead and not pop into your apartment to use your shower. And appliances.”

Jamie sighed, took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and looked at Tyler.

“What I meant is, you can come stay with me until your apartment is ready. We’ve got a spare room at my place for a little while, so you might as well use it.”

Jamie looked pleased with himself for having finally articulated the thought, and Tyler was already thinking of ways to politely reject this offer. What a terrible idea, right? Staying with a stranger who he was head-over-heels for who was clearly in a loving, committed relationship with a woman? And, oh boy, what if they lived together? What if the “we” Jamie had referred to meant him and his girlfriend? Tyler resigned himself to flat-out saying “no thank you” when his brain and mouth, working on autopilot, betrayed him.

“You sure, dude? That’d be awesome!”

Tyler felt as if his body was working against him when he walked back towards Jamie and took down the details of his apartment. Jamie, for his part, looked like he was glowing, thrilled at the prospect of having a new housemate.

“I’ll be by tomorrow,” Tyler said, finally leaving the locker room.

His last view was Jamie inching off his tank top, ready to finally take a shower himself. Tyler took a deep breath and hoped beyond hope that somehow he would make it through a week or two at Jamie’s apartment. As the door to the locker room swung closed, all Tyler could see in the back of his mind was Jamie’s broad back walking away from him, an image that would be burned into his brain until the end of time.

_ / \ _

**COLOGNE, GERMANY**

To both Connor and Dylan’s great relief, it was their last night in Germany.

Neither of them acknowledged the incredible tension after the pharmacy-band-aid incident, and both of them seemed happy to wake up the following day and pretend like nothing had ever happened. Even Dylan was managing to forget how rude he was to Connor that night – a first, in their friendship – and Connor seemed all too eager to ignore it and move on. Now, after several days sightseeing in Germany, Dylan felt that he had returned to his normal self, and it was clear Connor felt it as well. Whatever dark cloud had been hanging over Dylan for a while was now lifted, and they felt its absence in everything they did.

Well, not _whatever_ dark cloud – Dylan knew exactly which dark cloud was hanging over his head. It was a very particular dark cloud, perhaps German, perhaps tall, perhaps currently employed as a tour guide in Cologne, perhaps incredibly handsome and angular, perhaps possessing the ability to captivate a certain someone’s attention in a way Dylan had never seen before. Maybe its name was Leon. Who knows.

But all that was in the past, now. Their part of the tour that had been organized with the tourism agency – at Connor’s request, obviously – was now over, and they had been free to roam Cologne all on their own for the last few days. Of course, this meant eating at a few questionable restaurants, and one particularly unmemorable bout of food poisoning (the roadside stand was, naturally, Dylan’s suggestion), but on the whole it had been great. Dylan and Connor were getting along as good as ever, and Dylan felt like he – for the first time in a long time – had a handle on his emotions.

As these things tend to go, however, Dylan would soon find out that this was among many of the European Mistakes he was bound to make on this trip.

The sun rose on their last full day in Germany, and Connor, eager as ever, had already showered and brushed his teeth by the time Dylan rolled out of his bunk.

“C’mon, Dyl! There’s one last really old post office I want to see before we go,” Connor announced without a hint of irony.

Dylan couldn’t do anything but chuckle affectionately.

“Sure, I’ll be ready in a few.”

Dylan went about his morning business while Connor paced around the room, occasionally glancing out the window.

“After we see the post office, what do you want to do tonight?” Connor asked.

Dylan answered almost immediately, after taking a deep breath.

“So like – shut up in advance, by the way – but I planned tonight.”

“You?” Connor asked, his mouth agape in surprise.

“Yep. Me.”

“You _planned_ something?”

“Shock. Scandal. I know. Now accepting praise.”

Connor rolled his eyes.

“I’m just impressed, that’s all. You’ve never been the planning type, Dyl,” he said behind rolling eyes. “So, what’re we doing?”

“Ah. I thought you’d ask that. It’s one of those – what do you kids call it,” Dylan said with a faux-pensive tone, one hand on his hip and the other scratching his chin. “It’s a surprise.”

Connor now looked positively distressed.

“Dyl, I swear, I made you promise at the beginning of this trip that we wouldn’t go to a strip club and if you booked us a night at a strip club I’m going straight home and I’m never –”

“Connor, chill out. We’re not going to a strip club,” Dylan answered before putting on a mischievous grin. “Although I have to admit, the thought did cross my mind.”

Connor was twisting his hands anxiously and staring at Dylan.

“Dude – take it easy. It’s not a strip club, and I promise it’ll be great. Now let’s just enjoy this post office themed amusement park and then let me take care of tonight.”

“It’s not a post office themed amusement park, it’s just a post office.”

“Let me have this, Connor. One man’s post office is another man’s amusement park.”

As it turned out, Dylan was absolutely incapable of turning the oldest post office in Cologne into anything remotely resembling an amusement park. Even the manager of the still-functioning post office was shocked at the interest showed by two young North American tourists, and Dylan could tell that he was suspicious at first – understandably so. But once he saw Connor’s genuine enthusiasm – it was impossible to mistake it for anything else, nobody was that good a liar – the old man loosened right up and the two of them were taken on the longest private tour of a post office the world had ever seen. Possibly also the world’s first private tour of a post office.

They looked at envelopes and stamps and old post boxes and a billion and one other really old pieces of paper, all while Dylan watched Connor stare with his big, round eyes at each item that was presented to him. The tour guide quickly stopped offering to show Dylan the items once he realized that what to he and Connor were ancient, sacred relics were, in Dylan’s words, “historic paper-cuts waiting to happen.” Still, Dylan followed the two around patiently, admiring Connor’s enthusiasm from behind.

They finally left the post office after what felt like an interminable amount of hours, and Dylan ran out onto the street, clutching his chest in faux-pain.

“Oh! The horror! The horror! If I had been trapped in there for another second I don’t think I would have made it, Connor, I really think I would have died!”

Connor rolled his eyes, laughing at Dylan and trying to avoid the attention of the concerned citizens around them.

“C’mon Dyl, it wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“Literally, Connor, if I had to look at one more really old envelope I may have actually dropped dead.”

Connor was about to reply when Dylan cut him off.

“Also! I can’t believe he didn’t let me lick any of the stamps. Not one! There were, like, a billion in there, and it’s not exactly like this place is swarming with tourists. What does that guy have against my tongue?”

Dylan stuck his tongue out at Connor and proceeded to try and lick his face, which prompted Connor to shout in horror.

“Anything wrong with my tongue? Can you see it? Huh?”

“Dyl, cut it out, people are staring!” Connor said between bouts of laughter.

“Last day, dude. Anything goes!”

They made their way back to the hostel like that, goofing around, embodying the picture of two comfortable North American boys on vacation. Dylan felt at ease in a way that he hadn’t in a long time, and he could feel that even Connor – anxious, worrisome, fretful Connor – felt the same way. If Dylan was at all apprehensive about how he would manage his feelings on this trip, that apprehension had all but dissipated. He was reminded that his friendship with Connor meant the world to him, and this was why. Because when he was with Connor he could do things like lick his face in public and not care what anyone else thought because all that mattered was making Connor smile.

They got back to the hostel out of breath, their cheeks sore from laughing so much.

“Alright Dyl, so what exactly is this surprise you have planned for tonight?”

Dylan could hear notes of apprehension and excitement in Connor’s voice, and his stomach lurched. It was one thing to put some ridiculous plan together in your mind and even go so far as to organize it – it was entirely another to actually go through with it. Still, if Dylan had one thing going for him, it was this courageously dumb side.

“Nope. No spoilers. Just meet me here, at nine o’clock.”

He produced a piece of paper he had kept in his back pocket all day and gave it to Connor. All that was written on it was an address, some hastily scribbled directions, and a stick figure drawing of the two of them that could have been drawn by a toddler. The worried look returned on Connor’s face.

“I promise it’s not a strip club,” Dylan said, anticipating his worry, and Connor visibly relaxed.

“I’ve gotta got there a bit before you to make sure everything’s ready,” Dylan announced, and Connor raised his eyebrows. “But just promise me you’ll be there at nine?”

“Yeah. Nine. Sure thing, Dyl.”

“Perf. Swag. Game. Gotcha,” Dylan said, pointing finger guns at Connor, prompting him only to roll his eyes.

Dylan grabbed the bag he had kept packed behind his bed especially for tonight and sauntered out the door, enjoying Connor’s confused gaze on his back as he walked down the hall without so much as a backwards glance.

As Dylan walked, his confidence only grew. He didn’t have any specific plans to tell Connor anything – Dylan barely knew what he was feeling himself, he definitely didn’t have the ability to articulate it to anyone else – and still he knew that he wanted to share this positive feeling with Connor.

They’d been with each other for as long as Dylan could remember. They were neighbours growing up, best friends throughout school, roommates in college; theirs was the epitome of friendship. It wasn’t until recently that Dylan entertained thoughts that maybe their relationship was something deeper, something more meaningful. Sure, it was clear to literally everyone around them that he and Connor were destined to spend their lives together in one way or another, but who was going to decide what way that would be? And surely, if Dylan felt like maybe “friendship” wasn’t an adequate enough word to describe what he and Connor shared, Connor felt it too?

So that was the plan, then. Grand confessions weren’t exactly Dylan’s style, but he had to tell Connor that he was feeling… something. And certainly Dylan hadn’t imagined that Connor felt it too? It was in the interest of openness and honesty that Dylan would share what he was feeling, with no expectations.

Dylan arrived at his destination a full hour before Connor was meant to show up. He double-checked his phone to make sure he was at the right address, and slammed a door-knocker in the shape of a fish against a large wooden door. A woman who looked to be an octogenarian answered the door and ushered him through her home into the back garden, which had a table already set in the middle. Surrounding the table were plants of all shapes and sizes, and flowers as far as Dylan could see. The garden itself was a modest size, but that in itself made it all the more fitting.

After thanking the garden’s owner in a very broken German, who thanked him back in a very broken English, Dylan set to work. From his bag he produced dozens of printed photographs of he and Connor’s life together – he took advantage of Connor’s food poisoning to run to the pharmacy and pick up the prints, among other things – and began hanging them in various places around the garden. He placed tea lights and mosquito-repellent candles – Connor was a magnet for them – along all the walkways and bricked flower pots, and finished by setting a photo album he made well before they even left for Europe on the place setting meant for Connor.

He took a step back to admire his handiwork and – burst out laughing.

“Dylan, my friend, you have absolutely outdone yourself this time,” he chuckled to himself.

This surprise had begun, initially, as an opportunity to take Connor to a strip club. But after all the protestations – and something within Dylan hated the idea of seeing Connor in one – Dylan finally gave in, and settled on a post-ironic romantic dinner instead. Only… somewhere between Latvia and Lithuania Dylan decided to drop both the “post” and “-ironic” and so here he found himself having planned an incredibly romantic dinner for the two of them.

He shrugged his shoulders and decided that Connor would just have to live with it. After all – what better way to tell his best friend he’s actually been in love with him for his entire life?

Even Dylan blushed at the thought and got to work with the finishing touches on their now-just-romantic dinner.

The old woman appeared at the gate and signalled to Dylan that an hour had passed and his guest had arrived. As she led Dylan back through the house to the front door he realized that his German really was worse than he thought, and that her English was just as terrible, because as they continued on to the front door she kept referring to guests in the plural, and admonishing Dylan for not mentioning there would be three of them, otherwise she would have added an additional place setting.

Dylan chalked it up to something lost in translation and settled on opening the door to reveal for himself that they would, in fact, just be two. He stopped with his hand on the door when he heard two distinct male voices, and Connor’s unmistakable nervous laughter.

When he opened the door Dylan’s heart sank.

Connor wasn’t even looking forward, but was instead looking up at the blindingly handsome man standing next to him. After a few seconds of stunned silence Connor finally seemed to realize that the door had opened.

“Oh hey, Dyl! Look who I ran into on the way here! It’s cool if he joins us, right?” Connor said behind a grin, barely able to look Dylan in the eye.

There, next to Connor, in a crisp navy blue suit that would have swallowed Dylan whole, stood Leon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay - so I swear that all these storylines will intersect. Eventually. But not until there's at least 30% more angst and 75% more thighs.

**Author's Note:**

> More of this to come! I hope you're ready for a slow burn - this will keep you company while I'm away. :)


End file.
